Page 68 of Fake It For Glory

“Excuse me?”

“I made it very clear that while I’m paying you and we are together, you can’t flirt with another man. Get his number and call him in a month if you can’t help yourself.”

She glared at me and then defiantly downed the rest of her glass of wine. “Yes, sir. Anything else, sir? Do I need to actually kiss your ass or will it be okay if I just kiss your cheek?”

I had pissed her off, but in that moment, I was pissed myself. “Just please remember what we’re doing here.”

“Got it.” She saluted me before making a big show of spinning on her heel and walking away.

As the evening wore on, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted between us. This morning when I climbed out of the bed we shared at the hotel, she’d pulled me back. We made love and then we had breakfast wearing nothing but our bathrobes. That was not the woman I saw now.

I cringed when I saw her reach for another glass. I knew her pretty well and she didn’t drink much. She was going to be smashed if she kept it up.

I was engaged in a technical conversation with one of the yacht owners when I heard a commotion that drew my attention away from the deal-making and the clinking of champagne glasses. I turned, scanning the crowd, and there she was—Merida—right in the center of a heated argument with none other than Reid Reese, the founder of the tech gala who had coined the term “upper crust” to describe his social circle. His face was a portrait of incensed indignation, while Merida’s expression held a fierce determination.

Shit.

I couldn’t make out their words from where I stood, but I could see the tension in the way Merida gestured vehemently and Reid’s clenched fists. The surrounding guests had formed a tight circle around them, their eyes wide with fascination. Merida had given me a glimpse of that temper of hers. What I saw happening was a lot more than a little frustration.

She was mad.

Suddenly, Reid’s gaze landed on me, and he snapped his fingers as if summoning a servant. “Loxley, come control your woman.”

The words cut through the ambient noise like a blade, and I felt a surge of anger and embarrassment. I hurried toward them, my jaw set as I approached the scene. Merida was fiercely independent, and I had no intention of “controlling” her, but this was not the time for starting arguments.

Before I could reach them, Merida’s voice rang out, sharp and clear. “The money you paid for this boat could have done a lot of good for people in need!”

The statement hung in the air like a challenge. These people gave out a few thousand dollars a year and considered their debts to society paid. They felt like they were generous and magnanimous and were free to spend their billions without any guilt.

Reid’s face turned a shade of red that matched the carpet beneath our feet. He shot me a venomous look, his voice dripping with condescension as he addressed me.

“Get this woman under control,” he seethed.

Those words set Merida off like a spark igniting a powder keg. She squared her shoulders, her eyes flashing. I watched as people started snapping pictures and filming her, the situation rapidly spiraling out of control.

I rushed forward, extending a hand to take hers, to guide her away from the scene. But she yanked her hand away from my grasp and stormed off down the pier, her anger palpable in every step.

My frustration simmered beneath the surface as I shot an icy glare at Reid. “If you don’t want people to think you’re a jerk, maybe you shouldn’t say things like ‘control your woman,’” I said to him, low enough that the whole party couldn’t hear. “That might fly in some places but not where we’re from. Don’t you ever talk about Merida like that again. I don’t handle her. I don’t control her.”

Without waiting for his response, I hurried after Merida, my heart heavy with concern for her and the rift that had now widened between us.